That request provoked more complaints, and Raynor was in the process of explaining why his instructions were necessary when Tychus cut the conversation short by slamming the door and walking away.
The main road led the men past simple, wood frame houses that were equipped with solar-collecting roof tiles and satellite dishes. The dishes weren’t operational, of course, not since the battles in space had begun, but might become functional again someday.
“Here’s what we’re fighting for,” Raynor observed. “Neighborhoods like this one.”
Tychus directed a sidelong glance his way. “You’re kidding, right? We’re not fighting for the people who live in these houses, we’re fighting for the people who run the government, and believe me, there’s a big difference.”
They passed a few isolated stores and came across what was obviously the town’s main street. It was a sad-looking affair that consisted of oneand two-story commercial buildings, many of which were in desperate need of paint. “No, these people are the problem,” Tychus continued, “because they choose to believe all the lies, and allow themselves to be victimized.”
Raynor frowned. “Maybe some of them are like that—but plenty aren’t. Take my parents. They know the government isn’t perfect, but what’s the alternative? The Kel-Morians? I don’t think so.”
“Nor do I,” Tychus replied, peering left, then right, down the street. “Which is why I want to put a shitload of money aside, find a comfortable hole, and crawl inside. Which way?”
“I’m guessing left,” Raynor replied.
“Left it is,” Tychus replied, and turned in that direction.
They walked half a block before Tychus broke the silence. “What a dump.”
Raynor, who still felt homesick from time to time, frowned. “Spoken like someone from a big city,” he said neutrally.
“No,” Tychus replied. “Spoken like someone from a crummy little nowhere dump. A place where truckers stopped to take a leak, where the smartest person in town was the waitress in Pappy’s Café, and each day felt like it was a year long.”
As they approached Hurley’s Bar, Raynor realized that these were the only details Tychus had ever shared about his past. They’d gotten closer, but Raynor felt as though he knew nothing about Tychus. He wondered if he’d ever really know him, or whether it even mattered.
The tavern was housed in a low one-story building with plenty of empty parking places out front. Once inside, Raynor found himself in an atmosphere so familiar he might have been back home. A bar backed by what was clearly a kitchen occupied one corner of the large space. A row of sturdy posts supported the low, smoke-stained ceiling, and four-person booths lined the outer walls. A man who might have been a truck driver was seated at one of the mismatched tables at the center of the room, the bartender was drying glasses, and an elderly dog came out to greet them.
Raynor paused to give the animal a pat on the head before following Tychus over to the bar. The man standing behind it had a shaved head, bushy eyebrows, and the fist-flattened nose of an amateur prize fighter. Pictures of him could be seen here and there on the walls. Most were of him standing in some ring or other, bloodied fists raised in victory. Hurley perhaps? Yes, Raynor thought so.
The proprietor ran an eye over Tychus as if sizing him up before nodding politely. “Good afternoon, gents. What’ll it be?”
“A couple of beers,” Tychus responded.
“Coming up,” the bartender replied, as he removed two mugs from the shelf over his head. “Would you like anything else? Something to eat, maybe?”
“Yes, we would,” Raynor replied genially. “We’ll take a look at your menu in a minute… . But first maybe you can help us out with some information. Some friends of ours were passing through the area recently, and they haven’t come back. We’d like to find them. Any idea of who we might talk to? Or where we could look?”
Raynor saw the man’s eyes cloud over as some suds ran down the side of the second mug. “Sorry to hear about your friends, mister… . But these are troubled times. People shouldn’t travel at night. That’ll be five credits.”
“I didn’t say they were traveling at night,” Raynor said evenly, as he slipped some coins into the other man’s hand. “But they were. We aren’t asking you to name names. We’re justtoday announced an exciting new looking for some information, that’s all. Keep the change.”
Hurley opened his hand to see two large coins. “Why don’t you gents have a seat at one of the tables?” the proprietor suggested. “I’ll bring a menu.”
“How expensive was my beer?” Tychus asked as they went to sit down.
“Fifty credits,” Raynor replied.
“That makes a hundred altogether,” Tychus observed. “These beers had better be good. Sucker.”
Raynor and Tychus ordered enough food to feed themselves, Doc, Kydd, Harnack, and Feek. Then, with take-out bags in hand, they left. It wasn’t until they were back in the truck, passing out thick sandwiches, that Raynor found the hand-drawn map. He grinned and gave it to Tychus. “Don’t spill anything on my hundred-credit map… . How’s your lunch?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Confederate sources today announced an exciting new plan that would allow UNN reporters onto actual military bases to observe the course of the war. This should silence many of the critics who have dubbed the Kel-Morian engagement ‘the Quiet War’ due to the Confederacy’s hand in limiting media exposure. As one of the journalists selected for this opportunity, I’m very excited to get into the action and document the bravery of our soldiers. My security monitoring detail has assured me that it will be as unobtrusive as possible.”
The hand-dug pit was located in the middle of the barn, where it wouldn’t be spotted from the air, and was sheltered from both sun and rain. Silas Trask, the man who made decisions for the gang, called it “the tank.” As in “storage tank,” because that was where he kept the women he doled out to his men, and captives that someone might be willing to pay for.
Half a dozen people occupied the miserable hole at the moment. That included the soldiers, who had been held for nearly two days, an elderly couple, and two terrified teenage girls—both of whom were slated to serve as entertainment the next time the bandits decided to party.
All of them stood in six inches of muddy ground water and stared upward as a bright light appeared over their heads. “Hey, you two scumbags,” a male voice called out, “you’re up.”
There was a splash as a ladder came sliding down to hit the bottom of the tank. Zander went up first, closely followed by Ward, as the other captives watched from below. It was hard to know what to hope for. The tank was horrible—but so were the men above. And once summoned there was no way to know what would happen to them next. Some people were returned to the tank and some were never seen again. Were they free, having been ransomed? Or were they dead? Zander prayed under his breath.
Heavily armed bandits were waiting. One of them pushed Zander toward the tractor-size door. The soldier could see that it was evening. “Get moving,” the man said, and pushed again.
As he stumbled forward, Zander’s eyes darted from side to side, searching for anything that might help. He was shorter than his captors, but he was strong, and all he needed was some sort of weapon. A shovel, a pitchfork, anything would do. But nothing of the sort was within reach as the two men were pushed, shoved, and kicked into the barnyard beyond. Two of the planet’s moons were still up and arcing across the velvety blue sky.